Chapter 58

I returned to the crumbling Caladborg Duchy after a sweet two-week vacation, but there was nothing special for me to do here.

The reality was that I was nothing more than a mere successor of a decaying aristocratic family, assisting Asulin with paperwork when she worked. Before I left for the vacation in the Central Region, those sporadic appearances of demons in the duchy had vanished by the new year, making it impossible for me to help Asulin with escorting during her hunts.

All I could do was assist Asulin in small ways, like bringing documents or sparring with her in the evenings when she felt stiff from training. Although these tasks were not entirely involuntary, they were more reactive than proactive.

Usually, when there was nothing to do, I would lounge around in my room, enjoying the leisure. Or I would focus on my own training during the free time. In the past, I might have lounged around to recover from exhaustion, but having inherited everything from my brother, including his name, I realized that lounging around was no longer an option.

Bzzz—!

After finishing my sparring session with Asulin, I continued to train alone in the training ground late at night, swinging the Failord.

To warm up, I ran a few laps around the training ground, feeling the cold air from the northern Zakarat Mountain Range. Then, I began to swing the Failord without any hostility, focusing on refining my body and senses.

While it was true that one should use hostility in combat to enhance swordplay, I deliberately refrained from using it. I believed that the pure physicality and sharpened senses were more important than the hostility. Even though the Failord wasn’t as renowned as the famous swords Ascalon and Caladborg, it still possessed a strong sense of self and wouldn’t easily lend its power to anyone who claimed ownership.

My training involved controlling the Failord without any hostility, which felt like a battle between the sword’s desire to resist and my will to dominate. The Failord seemed to reject my attempts to control it, even though I had reclaimed it from my biological father before he abandoned me.

When I tested the Failord in Shaten, it initially showed no resistance, but later, it resisted my commands, indicating that it hadn’t fully accepted me as its master. This realization fueled my determination to train every night, mastering the Failord despite the difficulty.

Bzzz—!

“Cursed…sword.”

The Failord resisted fiercely against my will, making it incredibly challenging to handle. It didn’t behave this way when my biological father first handed it to me. Despite the considerable progress I had made since then, the Failord seemed to have become more stubborn after being away from my father’s hands.

Without using hostility, each time I practiced the sword techniques passed down through generations in the Sword Mansion, the Failord interfered with my intended path. If I tried to draw a downward stroke, the sword would suddenly stop midway, as if exerting force to halt. Without even a hint of hostility, it often led my intended path in a different direction, almost mockingly.

It wasn’t entirely wrong; my body and the sword were already aligned, yet the Failord stubbornly refused to cooperate. This made my training sessions feel like a battle between the sword’s resistance and my will to dominate.

Even though the Failord was less refined than Ascalon and Caladborg, it was still a prestigious sword of the empire.

“…If you don’t like it, just say so. Stop being stubborn.”

Though I couldn’t speak, I addressed the sword as if it could hear me. When I raised my right hand to strike from above, the Failord immediately disrupted my movement, causing the path of the strike to falter.

“…”

I lifted my head towards the sky, closing my eyes and sharpening my senses. Using hostility to force the path and the intent of the sword would be easy, but I didn’t want to rely on such methods. Instead, I wanted to demonstrate my presence without relying on hostility or energy.

Even with my eyes closed, the dim surroundings appeared clearer than ever, and the strength of my body kept the cold air from chilling me. My unwavering will and spirit, even when forced, allowed me to naturally subdue the sword.

…

Every time I attempted to swing the sword, the chaotic movements of the Failord ceased. For me, this pause was a signal, and I raised the tip of the sword back towards the sky, beginning a new round of training.

Unlike the previous rigid demonstrations, I started with a dance-like movement that revealed my heart. Perhaps because it didn’t recognize the familiar sword techniques from the Sword Mansion, the Failord remained silent, accepting my movements.

“This bastard…really has a strong sense of self.”

Despite the frustration of trying to understand the sword’s resistance, I simply swung the sword as I wished, and gradually, the chaotic dance became more structured.

“…A bit better.”

Even the stubborn Failord seemed to appreciate the trajectory of my dance, refraining from forcibly disrupting my movements.

However, this realization only brought me back to the harsh truth that this dance was not the answer.

…

A sword used to kill or subdue someone inherently drains the wielder’s mental energy. It’s natural; how can someone who deals with life and death not feel mental fatigue? On the other hand, a dance performed merely for show causes less mental strain, allowing observers to simply enjoy it.

But even the dancer themselves experiences some level of mental strain. Simply swinging the sword as one pleases is not as simple as it sounds. When I first attempted a dance, the result was a fierce and deadly strike that didn’t fit the purpose.

The sword, accustomed to lethal strikes, unintentionally reflected this in my movements. Only when I realized that the sword was cooperating without resistance did I understand why.

“Damn it.”

With a light curse, I lowered the sword and took a deep breath, trying to embrace a different kind of sword. But it was too late.

The night had grown too deep, and reluctantly, I ended my training for the day.

This is going to be a long-term struggle.